Happying
by Yombatable
Summary: England has a realization. Muses on currency. Makes up a word. And- oh yeah... blurts out some things that were rather stupid when he thought about it. ScotEng. One Shot.


**This is 2,124 words of England's thoughts and awkward confessions. I'm sorry. I just like this style of writing. The third-person-first-person musing and rambling thoughts and... IDK it's a bit weird, but I like writing it. I know we really don't need another confession story, but I still wrote it, and I'm still gonna post it because reasons. That's why.**

 **Where they are, why they're there, and why they're all sleeping in the same room is up to you, because I honestly didn't think that far.**

 **Enjoy! ;D**

* * *

It struck England rather suddenly.

That feeling of crushing realization.

And it made him freeze in what he was doing, all-consumed in the thought that had just wormed its way through his subconscious and into his waking thoughts. Quite honestly, he found himself able to think of little else.

Oh, how terribly cliché of him. He wasn't sure he was going to forgive himself for that.

He turned to his side, his book having long-since dropped from his fingers, and stared at the focus of his interest... or perhaps it was the focus of the focus of his interest... maybe even the reason for the focus of the focus of his interest. He supposed he should just say cause of realization, because he wasn't sure where his interests laid at that particular moment anyway.

His cause of realization chose that moment to let out loud snore. England almost punched himself for finding it endearing.

How had he let this happen?

Well, that's the million-bloody-dollar question, now isn't it?

It seemed he was going to have to forego the jackpot today though, because the million dollar question was more like a trillion-dollar question, or at least it better be. That question was too hard to answer for just a million dollars... wait, how did that equate to pounds? Uh... what was the exchange rate again...?

... Six-hundred-and-fifty-thousand quid! Fuck the million dollar question. He could steal more money from a hobo.

No amount of hobo mugging was going to prevent him from noticing the breathing of his cause of realization (whom he really thought he should start referring to by name, but then he'd have to face the reality of the situation) though. The way his chest rose gently and fell with a loud snore, rumbling through England's belly and upsetting all kinds of creatures. Perhaps upset was the wrong word... Exciting? Disturbing? Bothering?

Well, this whole situation really _was_ quite bothersome, all things considered.

Still, if the little buggers in his stomach were _that_ bothered he was sure they'd feel more unpleasant, and not... well _happying_ isn't a word. Then again, he is fucking _England_ , if anyone could make up a word, it would be him.

Fuck it.

That stupid snoring was happying the creatures in his stomach.

Eugh, no, that sounded _awful_.

He would _not_ be presenting that word to the oxford scholars any time in the near future...

He had, however, sometime in the near past, where he was more concerned with creatures in his stomach, gotten out of his bed and wandered the short ways it took to let him arrive at the side of his cause of realization's bed. He looked so peaceful in sleep. Almost beautiful. Well, that is if he could be such a thing.

Perhaps he should say handsome.

But that made him feel like _a pretty princess_ in a tower, waiting for his _handsome_ prince. He didn't want to be the _pretty_ one out of the two of them. That would be too degrading.

Problem was, _he_ couldn't be the pretty one, because _pretty_ just _wasn't_ what he was.

His eyes were pretty though. England wished he would wake up so he could see them, but that would mean he knew he was sitting by his bedside, watching him sleep, and no self-respecting person finds that even slightly charming. Not while they're not even moderately in a relationship at any rate.

This was all so confusing.

He wished he could make the creatures stop happying because- damn it! That word better not make it into his vocabulary now.

He let his head fall forward onto the sheets, closing his eyes and just listening to the snores. That bastard was making him smile, he knew it, because he could feet the corners of his mouth twitching.

It would have been nice to have some warning at least.

Some time to mentally prepare himself for the overwhelming urge to lay his head on that chest and drown in those heavy snores. Because right now he could smell him on these sheets, and he just wanted to _sink._

He was so close, and yet so...

Bloody...

Far...

"England?"

His head snapped up faster than he'd decided _happying_ was the worst word he'd ever invented, and turned up toward the squinting form of...

"Evening, Scotland," He said, smiling unconvincingly.

"What are you doing kneeling by my bed?"

England wasn't sure how to respond without outright telling him.

Scotland's eyes rolled, "What? Did you have a nightmare or something?"

And England was more than a little surprised to hear a hint of concern under that irritated sarcasm. Oh, but now his eyes were open, and the newest ugliest word in the English language seemed appropriate again.

"Something like that," England replied lamely.

Scotland frowned, sitting up straight, and tilting his head at him, oh fuck, "What's wrong with you? You seem... _off_."

England laughed weakly, "I... don't know exactly how to tell you _why_."

Scotland appeared to be getting impatient, "Just spit it out, you woke me up, I might as well listen to your shi-"

"I think I might very well be in love with you."

Well, there, he'd said it. He'd said it out loud before he could even tell his mouth to _not do that._ Because saying something like that out loud is stupid, and should absolutely _never_ be done under any circumstances.

Haha. Oh shit.

He chanced a glance at Scotland who was staring at him with the kind of awe which should be exclusively reserved for men with multiple heads, which was... well, the opposite of reassuring, really.

England coughed, his cheeks heating, and standing abruptly, "Well, would you look at the time! I should be-"

Just as England turned to run the fuck away, Scotland grabbed his arm.

Ha! Oh _shit_!

"Don't just fucking run away after dropping something like that on me!" Scotland growled, "How long?"

England attempted to subtly remove himself from Scotland's grip, but no dice it seemed, "Well, you see, that's where I'm not entirely sure." Scotland frowned in confusion. "I realized about ten minutes ago, however, that I... well, I'm not sure there's any other word for it."

"You..." Scotland trailed off, whatever he was going to say lost in the deep, thoughtful scowl he directed at his bedclothes.

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

The creatures in his stomach weren't happying anymore, they were just running around in aimless agitated circles, because Scotland wouldn't even let him escape his embarrassment, the git.

Bloody beautiful bastard.

This was all his fault, and now he was never going to be able to look him in the eye again.

Scotland looked up, "You... _love_... me?"

England nodded hesitantly.

He looked baffled for a moment, "Me? Why me? I thought you had the hot's for Portugal!"

"Portugal's my friend."

"And I'm your _brother_!"

"Yes, but _you're_ still the one who makes me feel like a fucking schoolgirl, so I think we both know that _I don't care_." England snapped defensively.

Scotland stared at him for a moment again, "I'll be honest with you," he said slowly, "Before just now, I'd never even thought about it."

England feigned nonchalance in the form of a shrug, "Me neither, if you hadn't been snoring quite so bloody loud then I might never have realized."

At the end of the day, really all England wanted at this point was for Scotland to stop looking at him like that. It was bloody infuriating, being looked at like a madman, and granted, he couldn't claim to be completely sane, but certainly not to the degree Scotland's look implied. Or at the very least let him go so he could regain feeling in his fingertips.

Scotland pursed his lips, "I don't love you, England."

And England shouldn't have been as crushed as he was when he said that, but now he felt like he'd been shoved face-first into a pile of steaming animal shi-

"But..."

England's heart stopped a little.

Perhaps he should have been concerned about that.

"I'm not... opposed to the idea of... well, y'know, you and me being... as long as you're okay- with that, that is." He coughed awkwardly, not meeting England's eyes.

England found himself unable to conjure up any coherent thought, so instead just blurted, "Can I kiss you?"

Scotland looked up at him, "What, now or in general, because-"

"Now."

"Oh."

They stared at each other for a moment, before Scotland gave a miniscule nod.

England was suddenly extremely aware of Wales' heavy breathing on the other bed, as was he extremely aware of just what he was about to do, as he sat himself beside Scotland and looked down at him. Why was he so bloody nervous all of a sudden? It was just-

But it wasn't _just_ Scotland, was it?

Because after his realization he stopped being _just Scotland,_ and became the man he was almost entirely certain he loved.

Oh bloody-fucking hell.

Scotland frowned at him after he didn't move for a moment, lifting a hand to brush lamely at England's hair. "Hey, what got you so bashful all of a sudden?" he laughed, raising an eyebrow.

England sighed, chewing on his lip, "I honestly didn't think you'd say yes."

"To the kissing, or in general?"

England slouched his shoulders a little, "Both, I suppose."

Scotland chuckled lightly, leaning forward to awkwardly rest his forehead against England's temple, "It's just me, you've never been nervous around be before."

England _really_ wanted to turn his head, but found himself unable to carry out the action. His own body had betrayed him more in the last fifteen or so minutes than any other single nation in his entire existence. "I wasn't in love with you before." Which is why he was surprised when his mouth actually gave a coherent answer.

Scotland huffed out a laugh through his nose, "That just makes it easier, doesn't it?" England managed to send him a dry look from the side, making him laugh again, "Yeah, I know it's bollocks, I'm just trying to help."

England let himself fall sideways a little, his head slipping from where it was pressed against Scotland's so that it fell on his shoulder. Scotland sighed, resting his chin on the top of England's head, and the two of them sat in silence for a while.

England's mind was having trouble coming up with any sort of actual thoughts as the silence drew on, other than the obvious. He really was rather obvious, wasn't he? He couldn't be a suave, cool gentleman like he wanted to be, could he? No, he had to be stupid and nervous and blurt everything out and then be too bloody cowardly to kiss the dickhead even with his express permission to do so.

Where were his balls?

Well obviously they'd fucked off along with his sanity when the realization took place.

Fuck. He really wanted to kiss him.

Oh wait, he _was_ kissing him.

When did that happen?

Oh fuck it, who cares?

He smiled a little against the lips that were pressed against his own, reaching up a hand to tangle in Scotland's bedhead. Scotland's lips were rough and bitter and nervous, but they were _Scotland's_ and... oh shit, he never wanted to spend another moment of his life without them against his own.

There go the creatures in his stomach happying again. He idly wondered if Scotland's were happying too, or if his emotions had suitable words, _real_ , not-ugly words that could be applied to them.

He certainly wasn't pulling away, at any rate, instead pulling England back on the bed without breaking lip contact, letting out a sigh of contentment when England twisted to accommodate him. They laid side-by-side on the bed, kissing lazily for a while, until their kisses got so lazy they weren't really kisses anymore and they were both mostly asleep.

Still, England's sleep-addled brain was still able to process one thought before he finally slipped asleep.

Perhaps the word _happying_ had more merit than he gave it credit for. He certainly was happying right then, after all.

* * *

\- Also Wales Because Reasons -

* * *

Beside them, in the room's third bed, Wales rolled his eyes, smiling a little despite himself.

 _About bloomin' time_ , he thought through a loud exhale, making an extra mental note to wake up early tomorrow morning before they woke up.

That way he wouldn't have to suffer through the honeymoon phase, because _that_ was a sickening thought and a completely unbearable reality, he was sure. Yeah, no, he'd be up at the arse crack of dawn if necessary, he suffered through enough of them being awkward. God knows he didn't need to hear any more.


End file.
